Gradually her vision cleared.  A great deal had happened in the interval—­a wild marching and countermarching of emotions, arguments, ideas—­a fury of insurgent impulses that fell back spent upon themselves.  She had tried, at first, to rally, to organize these chaotic forces.  There must be help somewhere, if only she could master the inner tumult.  Life could not be broken off short like this, for a whim, a fancy; the law itself would side with her, would defend her.  The law?  What claim had she upon it?  She was the prisoner of her own choice:  she had been her own legislator, and she was the predestined victim of the code she had devised.  But this was grotesque, intolerable—­a mad mistake, for which she could not be held accountable!  The law she had despised was still there, might still be invoked...invoked, but to what end?  Could she ask it to chain Westall to her side? She had been allowed to go free when she claimed her freedom—­should she show less magnanimity than she had exacted?  Magnanimity?  The word lashed her with its irony—­one does not strike an attitude when one is fighting for life!  She would threaten, grovel, cajole...she would yield anything to keep her hold on happiness.  Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper!  The law could not help her—­her own apostasy could not help her.  She was the victim of the theories she renounced.  It was as though some giant machine of her own making had caught her up in its wheels and was grinding her to atoms...

It was afternoon when she found herself out-of-doors.  She walked with an aimless haste, fearing to meet familiar faces.  The day was radiant, metallic:  one of those searching American days so calculated to reveal the shortcomings of our street-cleaning and the excesses of our architecture.  The streets looked bare and hideous; everything stared and glittered.  She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van Sideren’s address.  She did not know what had led up to the act; but she found herself suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning. it was too late to save herself—­but the girl might still be told.  The hansom rattled up Fifth Avenue; she sat with her eyes fixed, avoiding recognition.  At the Van Siderens’ door she sprang out and rang the bell.  Action had cleared her brain, and she felt calm and self-possessed.  She knew now exactly what she meant to say.

The ladies were both out...the parlor-maid stood waiting for a card.  Julia, with a vague murmur, turned away from the door and lingered a moment on the sidewalk.  Then she remembered that she had not paid the cab-driver.  She drew a dollar from her purse and handed it to him.  He touched his hat and drove off, leaving her alone in the long empty street.  She wandered away westward, toward strange thoroughfares, where she was not likely to meet acquaintances.  The feeling of aimlessness had returned.  Once she found herself in the afternoon torrent of Broadway, swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters, with a succession of meaningless faces gliding by in the opposite direction...